red with envy
by clairebare
Summary: Some new info about Patrick makes Red John even crazier
1. Chapter 1

LORELEI

"He wants you to try this." Dorothea at Neiman's opens the dressing room door a crack and passes in a nude-colored silk faille dress. Structured, almost severe. Fitted top and bell shaped skirt. Across the bodice, asymmetric slashes of pale nude leather. He loves leather. Usually black, but I can see how this particular shade would appeal to him. I peek out and smile at Red John. He's thumbing through the racks, my purse dangling in his hand.

Givenchy. Six-thousand-three-hundred and fifty dollars. Red John is nothing if not label-conscious. I slip into it. Knee-length. Architectural. He has perfect taste. Dorothea is frothing at the mouth. She's on commission. I've already said yes to three leather jackets, two Azzedine Alaia (his favorite designer) and one Philip Lim, a pair of leather pants, Rick Owens, three pairs of motorcycle boots, two Rag and Bone and one LD Tuttle, plus a boatload of lingerie.

Dorothea recognizes us from these shopping sprees but doesn't know what prompts them. Doesn't know that whenever he hands me a distasteful assignment, he does this to make it up to me. To let me know I'm special.

Why is his Amex Centurion on the march today? Dial the clock back an hour to me getting my toes done. I'm puzzled because Red John insists on keeping me company at the Lady Eve Salon and Spa. I know toenails are important to him but what's really going on here? Doesn't he have an evil empire to run? He glides his hand along the rows of polish bottles on the wall. "Lorelei, I need you to do something for me." Crap, I think. Doesn't he mean, do "someone" for him? Say, a sweaty senator? This seducing of strangers is the worst part of our relationship. But I remind myself, he's certainly gone out of his way for me.

He was a casual friend, a quirky guy that my sister, Miranda, and I would run into once in a while in a local coffee shop. I thought he was more into Miranda than me. But when she was murdered and I was crazy with grief, Roy was the one who was there for me. The only person I could talk to about my plans for revenge on the son of a bitch who'd taken my sister from me. Everyone else was eager to soothe the weepy, tragic Lorelei. But when I talked about what I wanted to do when I found the bastard, they'd shut down and act as if there was something wrong with me. Not Roy. He encouraged me.

One day, he bought me a coffee and told me he'd tracked down the murderer and was prepared to do everything I'd talked about. That night, he slipped into the killer's bedroom and made him very sorry for what he'd done to my sister. He showed me pictures. Roy was very good at what he did; masterful even. It was clear that he wasn't the ordinary laptop toter you meet at Starbucks. We went back to his house, which was vast and white-on-white modern. He told me about himself. About Red John. About his philosophy. I found myself accepting him the way he'd accepted me. And from that night on, we were a couple.

He calls me Martie. I call him Reddie. He brings me tea in the morning and cookies and milk at night. We see films, we travel, we ski, we do the crossword together. I taught him to dance. He taught me to play chess. Aside from his tendency to slash anyone who upsets him to ribbons, he's really good for me. Other people are his minions. I'm his girlfriend.

Back to the salon. The manicurist has finished putting base coat on my toenails. We're ready for polish and I give Red John the hurry-it-up gesture. He selects a deep blue-red. He has an eye for color. Especially red.

But I know his presence here isn't about which shade to choose. I brace myself for the name of the slob he wants me to do it with. He leans over and studies my toes. "You remember Patrick Jane, don't you?"

My stomach does a flip. I want to shout, Patrick Jane? He of the unruly golden curls and blue green eyes and wide white grin? Hell, yeah, I remember him! I don't shout that, of course. I sigh heavily and whine, "Do I have to?" Red John kisses the top of my head. I say, "Oh alright, if it's really that important to you." He smiles, pleased that I appear to be dreading my new errand. Anything you do for Red John has to be something you hate doing. Otherwise, it isn't really meaningful to him. He nods and sits down with his Wall Street Journal.

I ease myself up from the pedicure chair and back away out of his sight. I practically do cartwheels to the waxing room. I can't contain myself. Patrick Jane? I want to eat him with a spoon. I want to drink his bathwater. I want to...


	2. Chapter 2

PATRICK, a few nights later at the motel

For six months, I've been circling the drain. I'm a conman, a thief, an addict, a drunk. And now, I've spent the night in a seedy motel in the arms of a total stranger. I've lost myself. Or perhaps, this is what I really am, and I've found myself. The one thing I know is, when I fall, I do it fast and with enthusiasm.

I'm not unfamiliar with the experience of women coming on to me. I've escorted several naked ones from my sofa at the CBI. Lorelei is not even the first woman in Las Vegas to show up at my motel room. Not the first to arrive bearing serious gifts like chicken soup and bail. Just the first in ten years to get through to me.

Her eyes told me someone she loved had been violently ripped away from her. That she lived with fear and hopelessness and death. We had a lot in common. And her damage spoke to mine.

I think of Lisbon and how this first woman should be her. But Lisbon still hopes to find happiness. And I have none to give her. So I let Lorelei into my room.

We watched a TV show about jungle creatures doing jungle things to each other and it provided a nice segue to our first kiss. She wriggled out of her clothes like a happy puppy. She is lush and full-breasted and at the juncture of her thighs, sports a landscaped heart of curly dark hair. Which pretty much sealed the deal for me.

It had been a long time and I didn't trust my body to do what it needed to do. And I didn't want the whole thing over with too soon. My male pride would be mortally wounded. So my strategy going in was to lead with some feats of hand-mouth coordination that, years ago, made The Boy Wonder popular with the local girls on the carney circuit. This had her screaming her head off for the first half hour or so. My thinking here was to insure that no matter how speedy part two might turn out to be, she would walk away feeling it was worth the wax job. It was obvious from the way she responded when I lavished so much time on her, that she wasn't used to that kind of attention.

Then she wanted me inside her and once that was accomplished, it became clear to both of us that all the equipment worked the way it should and, over the course of the evening, we worked our way from the bed to the shower and back to the bed again.

And that is where I find myself. I pull the covers over both of us. She turns over in her sleep with her glossy hair spread over the pillow and her false eyelashes miraculously in place.

Now that I have the lust out of my system, there's something in the back of my mind that's bothering me about tonight. Something I'm missing. Something I'm just too tired to bring to the front. But I'm not going to think about that right now. Right now, I'm going to do something else I haven't done in a long time. Sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

LORELEI, the morning after the night at the motel

Red John is lying on the big L-shaped sofa watching a dvd of Maria Callas singing Tosca when I get home from my night with Patrick Jane.

I close my eyes for a second and relive the feeling of his soft blond hair and his taut blond body. I'm proud to have been the first to successfully seduce him. Red John keeps tabs on who does what with his pet, Patrick. So I was worried that Patrick might send me packing like the others. I would have been hurt and I would have failed Red John. Something I would never do.

I loved making Patrick moan in my arms. I couldn't get enough of him. Also, did I mention this guy's dick is better-looking than most guys' faces? Too bad about Charlotte. That's certainly a gene pool that ought to be perpetuated. But I have to admit, the look on his face when I told him Red John had sent me also had its charms. You don't spend time with Red John without developing an appreciation for other people's pain.

"How'd it go?" Red John switches off Callas mid-aria. I drop my bag on a chair and take off my leather jacket. "Perfect. He woke up. I cooked him eggs. He asked if we could see each other again. And that's when I dropped the bomb." Red John rubs his hands together. Makes me think of Mr. Burns on the Simpsons.

I walk into the kitchen and put the kettle on the stove. "You want tea?" He yells back from the sofa, "Only if we still have the Marco Polo." Recently he's become a tea snob. But I think he's only into it because Patrick is.

As I let it steep, I reflect on how part of me would like to be the girl who tells Patrick - yes, I'd love to see you again. Who wants to have dinner, maybe even a relationship. Instead I'm the girl who informs him he just slept with his mortal enemy's significant other. But that's the way it is.

I set Red John's tea on the red velvet ottoman. He's eager. "C'mon, details, details. Did he know it was a con?" I stir my tea and say, "I don't think he had a clue." Red John pumps his fist in the air, "YES!" He can be so immature. I continue, "He was shocked but I'd say that he re-grouped quickly." Red John says, "He regrouped?" "Yes," I reply, "he got over being shocked and then he threw me out."

"He'll call," Red John says. "He'll accept my friendship. I'll set him up with a whole new life." I think, sure, you and Patrick can hang out. Instead I say, "I'm sure you're right." I stir in another packet of Splenda. I find myself hoping he's not right.

"What brand of suits does he wear?" Red John's poised to enter the info in his iPhone. "Paul Smith," I answer. "Shirts?" "Charvet." I can see that he'd guessed wrong on both. "British suits, French shirts," he mutters, impressed.

"What was his hair like?" Red John asks. "Uh...blond," I say. He gestures impatiently. He wants me to expand. I expand, "But unlike many blonds, it's not baby fine, it's strong and thick. And unlike most curly hair, it's not at all frizzy. He has these ringlets that have a life of their own. They came back as soon as we got out of the shower." Red John digests that for moment. "Shower? You...took a shower together?"

There's an uncomfortable silence while he metabolizes that tidbit. Then he gets back to taking notes in his iPhone. "What cologne does Patrick use?" he asks. "You know, I asked him about that," I reply. "He told me he thinks cologne for men is declassé." "D-declassé?" Red John sputters. "Yes, like pinkie rings." Red John's eye twitches. I bet I know where his quart-size Gucci for Men is going. Right down the drain. "Soap?" he queries. "Acacia by Rancé." I spell it, "R-A-N-C-E with an accent acute at the end." "French," he says. "Oui," I say. Red John composes a text message and presses send. Some poor minion is going to spend his day in terror trying to track down a bar of Acacia soap.

"Body?" Red John looks at me expectantly. Where the fuck is he going with this? "Strong and defined. No hair on his chest. Skin is soft, fair, poreless and even in tone. He leans more toward golden than pink, hence his ability to tan without burning. The color also blends with his hair and eyebrows giving him a sculptural look. Like a greek statue." Red John has the expression of a kid at story time. I continue. "Sort of a swimmer's build. Smooth broad chest and shoulders, muscular arms, large hands with elegant long tapered fingers, flat belly, great ass, beautiful legs, nice knees, well-shaped feet."

"And?..." Red John arches an eyebrow. I play dumb. "Come on, Lorelei, don't be coy. You know what I'm asking." Of course, I know what he's asking, I just can't believe he's asking. So I tell him. "Majestic," I rhapsodize. The platonic ideal of a male member. Smooth and velvety. Proportionate but...on the generous side." Let Red John put that in his pipe and smoke it. I slay myself sometimes.

On that note, I stand. "I'm gonna shower." Red John grabs my hand. "Not yet, take off your clothes." O-kay, guess I'm not gonna shower right now.

I'm flat on my back on the sofa as he inspects every inch of my body. He holds my face in his hand. "Stubble burn," he says with some satisfaction. He notes more of the same on my breasts. He does a bit of a take as he follows the trail of stubble burn to my thighs. He knits his brow. He proceeds to sniff me all over like a dog. Eww. I know he's obsessed with Patrick but is he actually trying to deepen their relationship by sticking his nose in my noonie? Why doesn't he just eliminate the middleman and have sex with him himself? I hear his muffled voice down there. "Fruit?" he asks. I lift my head and look down at him. "We used condoms, cherry flavored condoms. So you're gonna smell cherries, the scent of eau de Lorelei, which you're familiar with, maybe a whiff of the Acacia soap from last night's shower. Plus...Patrick's saliva, I guess." Red John's eyes appear above my crotch. "Saliva?" He seems flummoxed by that. Like a woman winding up with a guy's saliva there is some rare phenomenon. Well, if Red John is the guy, it would be.

He stretches out on the sofa. I lie with my head in the crook of his arm. Something occurs to him. "Lorelei, did you say condoms, like plural?" Uh-oh, I'm an idiot. Why did I open this can of worms? Red John is a one-condom-and-a-long-nap kind of guy. He props himself up on one arm. "How many times, Lorelei?" I shrug, "I guess after the first time, he...he regrouped." He sits up. "How many times did he regroup?" I tell him the truth, "three more times. So four in total." Red John's eyes are like pinwheels.

I stand and head for the shower. "Not so fast," he calls. I freeze. "How many times did you yourself...regroup?" I turn back to him and say, "Around ten, I think." His jaw drops. Trying to keep it light, I back away putting my hand up like I'm taking an oath, "If I'm lyin', I'm dyin'." Crap, bad choice of words. Red John looks...irked.

"Be precise, Lorelei." "Fourteen times," I confess. Red John does a spit take with his tea. Coughing, he asks, "Was it enjoyable?" Did he actually just ask me that? I bite my lip to avoid laughing. I think, let me see, was it enjoyable? Fourteen orgasms courtesy of the most gorgeous man on earth? Now what woman could possibly enjoy that, PINHEAD? But of course, I don't say any of that, Instead, I look unenthusiastic and say, "It was OK, if you like that sort of thing." I can see the competitiveness in his eyes. "Lie down, Lorelei," he whispers. "Walk me through everything he did."


	4. Chapter 4

LORELEI, at the casino, several days later

Since my night with Patrick, Red John has been driving me crazy trying to show me as good a time in bed as Patrick did. I attempted to talk him through it but he's a lot better with a knife than he is with his hands. And he just doesn't have Patrick's mouth. Really, who has that mouth? So Red John comes to the game with a handicap. And I didn't exactly have my wits about me when I was in bed with Patrick so I haven't been much of a coach.

I can't fake it with Red John either. He can tell. After a few hours, it was clear there was no way he was going to make me "regroup" more than once or twice. When we called it quits for the night, he was fuming and I was sore.

A few days later, I was doing laps in the pool when Red John came home. I saw his silhouette standing at the edge of the deep end. I came up for air, took one look at him and almost drowned. His hair was dyed golden blond and he'd gotten a perm! I hauled myself out choking. He looked nervous. "Whattya think?" Pathetic, I thought. "Sexy," I said. He nodded as if I'd confirmed his own opinion.

He sat in the gazebo and dumped a pile of books out of a Barnes and Noble bag. "Expert Card Technique." "The Tarbell Course in Magic." "The Royal Road to Card Magic." All sleight of hand manuals. He spent the rest of the afternoon practicing coin tricks and card moves. I guess he thinks Patrick's carny dexterity translates to his prowess in bed. I knew I was in for another long night.

Which brings me to this mezzanine booth at this crummy casino. I'm waiting for Patrick. I can't believe he called and wanted to hear more about Red John's offer. Red John was over the moon when he heard that Patrick was interested. He kissed me like a thousand times and had his guy at Buccellati send over a serious bracelet.

I see Patrick enter the casino and head my way. I study my iPhone so I can commit Red John's questions to memory. They have to sound like they're things I want to know; not things Red John wants to know. Question one: Is the way you touched me directly related to a particular sleight of hand technique such as the Double Lift, Finger-flinging or the Halo Shuffle?

If I don't bring back usable info about Patrick's love-making techniques, even Teresa Lisbon's dead body won't keep me in good standing with Red John.


	5. Chapter 5

LORELEI, in an FBI van in the Las Vegas desert

Believe it or not, riding handcuffed in the back of an FBI van is the best thing to happen to me today. Only yesterday, Red John was carrying me through the house like the pope through the streets of Rome. I was the woman responsible for bringing Patrick Jane into the minion fold. The one who'd convinced Patrick to hand over Teresa Lisbon's dead body. I was golden, a wonder girl. Then Red John's brown nose at the FBI had to get on the phone and tell us that it's all one of Patrick's cons. "He thinks he's so clever," Red John griped. "I'll show him clever."

Change of plans. Instead of riding in Red John's Bentley EXP 9F as the great man himself drives to pick up Patrick, I wind up stuffed in a rental limo driven by a no-brow minion with that weasel Wainwright trussed up in the back.

Then instead of at least hearing Red John out, Patrick decides to go kamikaze and tell him to go to hell. I was so scared of what he might do to Patrick right then and there. I mean, Red John had just spent the previous week not measuring up to Patrick in bed. And now he'd learned that instead of getting his heart's desire, Patrick as his minion, he was getting an organic honeydew in an acrylic wig.

So I thought Red John was rather moderate in his response when he told me to cut off two of clever Patrick's clever fingers. I could see how Red John would consider it the perfect punishment for what Patrick had put him through. But the FBI's timing was perfect. I didn't have to hurt Patrick and I didn't have to go home and face Red John.


	6. Chapter 6

TERESA, in the interrogation room after Patrick walks out.

Once you hear something you can't un-hear it. The moment Jane walks out of the interrogation room and leaves me with her, Lorelei starts talking. About what he did with his hands, his mouth. How it felt to have him inside of her. I try to tune her out.

Patrick Jane. My mentalist. The sexiest, most brilliant, most charming MONK on the planet. I could deal with him not wanting me as long as he didn't want anyone else. Now I know he's gettable. Just not by me.

For ten years, every fiber of my body rejoiced when his palm made momentary contact with the small of my back. When he almost drowned, I saw his bare chest. I once glimpsed a sliver of flat tan belly when he tucked in his shirt. For ten years, I've subsisted on crumbs. And now this foxy little demon with glowing eyes and big boobs is lording it over me?

Patrick, oh Patrick, haunter of my dreams, fire of my loins. Why didn't I just hit that thing when I had the chance? I could have climbed on his hospital bed in his fugue state and no one would have been the wiser.

I turn my attention back to our suspect. Lorelei's still yakkin' away. Fourteen orgasms for her. Four for him. The platonic ideal of a male member. And that bewitching Jane scent I first got a whiff of when we danced so long ago? Acacia soap. How does she know? They fucking showered together.

Can nothing be done to shut this woman up? I want to stick my fingers in my ears and scream. I want to chase after Jane, grab him by the ankles, yank him to the ground and punch his gorgeous face in. Instead, I sit here, not moving a muscle. The corners of my mouth turned up in amusement. Jane would be so proud. I am determined to wipe that triumphant smile off her face.

She launches into an ode to his ass. "Lorelei," I butt in. "Have you seen the latest issue of 'Who Gives a Flying Fuck?' I'm on the cover."

Lorelei quiets down. I continue, "Everything you're describing about a night with Patrick is accurate. But you didn't mention whether Patrick did 'the thing' to you. Did he?" "The thing?" Lorelei looks puzzled, "I don't know what you're talking about, Agent Lisbon." I snicker. "Of course you don't, Lorelei. He didn't do 'the thing' to you because you're not significant to him. Just some random woman he boffed on some random night." I continue airily, "Patrick is a very sexual being and as such, has always been free to dally with other women. But I'm the one he loves."

She just might be buying it. I'm turning into a pretty good liar. Lorelei looks nervous. "He did a lot of stuff to me," she says. "Mind blowing stuff. I'm sure he threw that in." "Trust me, Lorelei, if he did 'the thing,' you'd know and you'd have mentioned it first. No way would you bury that headline. I'm the only woman alive who's experienced that particular Patrick Jane talent." I can see I really have her going.

"Agent Lisbon, I'm going to ask Patrick about this so-called 'thing.'" I smirk at Lorelei and move in for the kill. "And he'll say he has no idea what you're talking about. Even deny the notion that he and I are involved." I get up to leave. "Patrick is a gentleman. He'd never discuss with one lady what he does with another lady. That would be kissing and telling."


	7. Chapter 7

LORELEI, the day she visits Red John

What a whirlwind of a year it's been. Vegas. CBI Holding. County Jail. Chowchilla. Getting sprung by Patrick. Taking a road trip with him. Finding out about Miranda. Killing Julia and shooting Lennon.

The best part about it was getting to know Patrick better. Not only is he one-hundred percent all-white meat sex cutlet, he is the sweetest, funniest, smartest, most empathic guy I've ever kicked the crap out of. If I wasn't a torturer and a murderer and he wasn't my main competition in the quest to kill Red John, I would fall madly in love with him.

About my Red John quest. Here's how it all went down. I sneaked into Red John's bedroom with my gun drawn. I took aim at the bed and…one of Red John's winged monkeys clocked me. I hit the floor hard, my gun went flying. I heard Red John's voice from the door behind me. "Idiot, I told you not to hurt her." The idiot looked at him fearfully. "Take the cyanide," Red John pointed at him and, like he was talking to a dog, said, "Go on, take it." The idiot bit down on the pill, fell to the floor dead, and some other idiot dragged him away.

Red John helped me up from the floor and wrapped me in his arms. I noticed he'd maintained his golden curls in my absence. "Hi, Martie, he sighed in my ear. "Long time, no see." He used my nickname. He nuzzled my neck. He dabbed ice on my bruise. I thought, is he hoping we can still make a go of it? Like maybe do couples counseling?

He led me by the hand to the L-shaped sofa in the living room. He had tea set up on his best Bernaudaud china. We sat. "One lump or two?" he queried. "Please, stop dicking around," I said. "Why'd you kill Miranda? He looked sheepish. "The truth is, I believed there was no way I could ever win you unless I did something to…lower your defenses." I slammed down my teacup. "Lower my defenses? Ever hear of roofies?! That's the traditional approach."

I was crying. "You took away the light of my life." Red John held my hand. His voice was soothing. "And I'm really, really sorry about that, Lorelei. Truly I am. If I met you today, I'd have the confidence to walk right up and ask you for a date. But I was painfully insecure back then." I yanked back my hand and said, "Oh well, all's forgiven then. Congratulations on your personal growth!"

I started pacing. I whirled around and walked back to him on the sofa. "And another thing, why didn't you break me out of jail? We both know you could have had me out of there the same night they arrested me. Why did you leave it for Patrick? What's funny is, if you'd gotten me out, I never would have found out about Miranda and I'd be back here living in a fool's paradise with you, my loving boyfriend."

Red John went on the offensive. "Oh yeah? Why'd you tell Patrick the thing about the handshakes?" "It was a mistake, OK?" I got in Red John's face. "I'd just found out that my boyfriend murdered my sister. Cut me some slack, maybe?" He poured himself more tea. I could see he was a little cowed. I wanted to kill him.

I was on a roll. "Besides, what's the big deal if he knows he met you? You're the genius. The mastermind who keeps outwitting Patrick Jane. Of course, it's not as impressive when you consider the fact that you've known all along who HE is. So I'm thinking that the confident and secure person you've become would like the idea that Patrick is narrowing down the list. Leveling the field. We'll finally get to see who's the better man!"

Red John jumped up. "Better man? What's that supposed to mean? Are you saying I suck in bed?"

At that point, I knew I was going to die.

There's a time in every woman's life when she has to say "What the fuck." I started ranking on him saying that it was obvious he would never have Patrick's skills. That Agent Lisbon had told me about 'the thing' that Patrick does to her and that I was positive Red John could never pull it off. "What is 'the thing?" he demanded, his interest instantly piqued. "That's for me to know and for you to find out." Infantile, I know, but I wanted to rub it in.

"Anyway," I continued, "even if you figured out what 'the thing' is, you couldn't do it without 'the stuff.'" I really don't know which orifice I pulled that out of. But it was a genius move. Perfectly designed to nut him up even more. The expression on his face was priceless. "The stuff?" He was practically drooling. "Is it a pill? Is it a spray? Is it some kind of equipment? Do you swallow it? Do you wear it? Do you smoke it? What's it called? Where can I buy it? Is it expensive?" I just smiled.

Minions appeared and started to set up a video camera. Red John gave me a script to read to Patrick. I looked it over. Talk about infantile. "Bet you think you're pretty clever...I'll show you clever." The whole thing read like dialogue for Cartman on South Park. Red John said if I read the script, he would make sure I didn't suffer much.

So I read it, all the while wishing I had told Patrick who Red John is. I wished I could signal him in some way. That I could blink my eyes in code. Give him some kind of clue.

That would have made me happy.


	8. Chapter 8

PATRICK, in the alley where Lorelei's body was found

Did I have feelings for her? I understood her. I was obsessed with her. She knew what I was desperate to know. For the last months of her life, we shared the exact same goal. I think that made us intimate way beyond sex.

Did Lorelei have it coming? I don't know. Is that what they'll say about me if Red John kills me?

I said it for Lisbon. She needs something from me right now. Declaring my lack of feelings for another woman is the closest I can come to telling Teresa that I care. And Lorelei certainly doesn't mind.


	9. Chapter 9

TERESA, in the days following the dvd

As Red John promised in the message he made Lorelei read, he started killing again. Seems like there's a new horror every day. But that means there's new information for Jane to run through his beautiful brain. And maybe get us closer. Meanwhile, whenever I encounter someone on the list, I parse his every word and gesture searching for a monster.

In the meantime, we have a new serial killer on our hands. The press is calling him "The Corsage Killer." Every weekend, a woman is found dead in her bed with an exquisite corsage on her wrist. What we haven't released to the public is that each corsage has a little gift card with a number written on it.

Sunday morning, I get a call from SFPD. We arrive at the posh little apartment of a young woman, Fern McKee. We make our way from her front door to her bedroom following a trail of clothing. Black silk pumps in the foyer. Evening coat and clutch on the living room rug. Black silk dress in the hallway. Lace bustier on the bedroom rug. Satin panties at the foot of the bed. Pretty woman dead on the bed.

Jane does his usual survey of the body. Looks it over carefully and sniffs it. The medical examiner says that a quick on-scene examination indicates that this woman, like all the others, was killed with a long needle inserted into the brainstem. Pretty much painless. Also, there are signs of vigorous sexual activity. If this woman is like the others, there will be no trace evidence on her body. The rapist always uses condoms. I look at the corsage and pull out the gift card. The number written on it is fourteen. She is his ninth victim. The first body had the number three. The seventh body had the number ten. So it's obvious the numbers don't correlate to the sequence of the victims.

"Jane," I say, "thoughts?" "Hmmm. Interesting, isn't it, Lisbon?" With that, he heads out of the apartment. "Jane?" I call. "Jane!" The on-scene officer eyes me. "He's a consultant," I explain.


	10. Chapter 10

PATRICK, the next day in his attic

It's early morning. I'm in the attic, sitting in my chair, looking at the new board I've put up. Nine dead women. Nine corsages. Each with a different number on its gift card.

Lisbon bangs on the door. "It's open," I yell. She slides the massive door. I hear her sharp intake of breath when she sees my new murder board encrusted as it is with photos and notes and pressed flowers. "Why are you trying to solve this case on your own, Jane? We're partners, remember? Let me help you."

I swivel in my chair and face her. "Oh, I identified the killer weeks ago, Lisbon." She kicks my chair. "You son of a bitch. Why didn't you tell me?" "Because if I told you, Lisbon, I'd have to tell you things that you might not be able to handle." She bares her teeth and clenches her fists. "Don't you dare do this, Jane. I'm an officer of the law and I don't need your protection. Tell me or I'll kick your butt all over this attic."

I take a deep breath. "I knew the identity of the Corsage Killer right away. He's none other than Red John." "Red John?" she gasps. "How?..." She steadies herself on the edge of my desk." "Simple, Lisbon. All nine victims smelled of cherries and acacia soap." "And that would upset me...why, Jane?" I look into her eyes. "Because Lorelei and I used cherry-scented condoms and showered with acacia soap."

Lisbon looks sick. She jumps up. "I forgot I have another meeting, Jane. I...I can't talk to you right now." She slips through the door. I hear the clatter of her shoes moving too fast down the steep stairs.


	11. Chapter 11

PATRICK, that afternoon at the CBI

All afternoon, Lisbon's been busy painting the roses red for Bertram and pointedly ignoring me when she passes my couch in the bullpen.

I climb back up to the attic to contemplate my murder board. I stir my current cup of tea. I must be losing my touch. It's too strong. No amount of milk lightens it. No amount of sugar sweetens it. If I were an idiot, I'd call it a bad omen.

As I slide open the door, I notice a fresh corsage pinned to the center of the board. I walk over and pull it off. There's a card. I pull out the note inside. It reads, "What is 'the thing?' And 'What is the stuff?'" I ponder this for an hour. I'm stumped.

The scent of the flowers has become overpowering. I have to get some fresh air.

I return from my walk and barge into Lisbon's office with a fancy coffee and a bag of Marie's finest carbohydrates. She is crazy glued to her chair doing paperwork. I place in front of her the coffee and a bear claw as peace offerings. With her eyes shooting daggers, she rips off half a bear claw with fierce white teeth and chews it savagely. I get the symbolism.

"Lisbon, I need your help on the Corsage Killer case." It doesn't seem like she's going to shoot me, so I sit down across from her. If I didn't have a cryptic note from a homicidal maniac in my back pocket, I'd be feeling OK.

I thumb through the bag of pastries and start to unwind a cinnamon roll. I give her a rundown of my thinking. "Here's where I am so far. These aren't rapes, these are dates. Red John wines and dines these women, has vigorous consensual sex with them over a few hours, kills them painlessly, then leaves a corsage with a random number on the gift card." "Dates, Jane?, that's creepy," she says. "Tell me about it," I reply.

I continue, "I've never mentioned this but when I first talked to Lorelei about accepting Red John's friendship, she asked me whether I'd adapted the sleight of hand tricks I'd learned as a carney to my...uh...lovemaking techniques." LIsbon blushes.

"I didn't focus on it at the time, but why would she ask me that? Red John must have wanted to know." Lisbon nods.

I continue. "Then, in the desert, Red John told Lorelei to cut off two of my fingers. Peculiar punishment, don't you think?"

Lisbon gasps. "I've got it. You're a better lover than he is, Jane." I give her a delighted grin. She punches my shoulder really hard. She goes on, "You're better than he is and Lorelei must have told him that." We share a smile. Lisbon's pride at connecting some important dots outweighs her embarrassment at the subject matter.

"He's competitive with me, Lisbon. Remember the dvd? He wants to show me who's the clever one."

Lisbon says, "So he dates these women, has wild sex and then kills them? How does that compete with you?" "He's practicing on them, Lisbon. From his point of view, I took his girlfriend away. I alienated her affections and made her betray him thus forcing him to kill her. So now he needs to use these other women to polish his skills."

I take Red John's note and place it in her hands. "I found this attached to a fresh corsage pinned to the board in my attic. It leaves me thoroughly nonplussed. And you know I don't ever say that." Lisbon reads it aloud, "What is the thing?... What is the stuff?" The blood drains from her face. "Jane, I might know what 'the thing' is.'" She returns the note to its envelope and stares ahead. She puts her hand over her mouth. "And I've just realized what the numbers mean."

"Tell me." She goes from pale white to beet red. Tears well up in her eyes and roll down her face. I hand her my handkerchief. "Teresa-" "I'm so ashamed," she weeps, hiding her face in the white linen. "It's OK," I whisper. "Whatever it is, it'll be OK."

She dries her eyes. "When Lorelei was in the interrogation room and you left me there with her, she started detailing everything you did together. What your body is like. How many times you...How many times she..." I'm sure my face is as red as Lisbon's. I wish I had another handkerchief to hide behind. Lisbon swallows hard and looks me in the eye. "She said she had fourteen orgasms."

"Did she? Wow." I'm impressed with myself. Lisbon shoots me a dark look. My arm still hurts from her punch so I get back to the case. "The numbers, Lisbon, of course. He gave his latest victim the number fourteen because that's the number of times she..." Lisbon nods and says, "So in Red John's mind, he's now even with you and he wants you to know it."

"But Lisbon, what about 'the thing?' You think you know what he means?" She bites her bottom lip and tries not to cry. "I was upset, Jane. Lorelei was gloating and I wanted to shut her up." I touch her hand but she pulls away. "I told her that...you and I...are lovers."

Oh god, my poor Teresa. How painful that must have been to say. To feel the need to lie to preserve her dignity in front of Lorelei. How painful to now have to confess it to me.

Lisbon takes a deep breath and continues. "I told her that the number of orgasms and stuff she mentioned were just par for the course during sex with Patrick Jane. But there was something you did only to me. Because you loved only me. I referred to it as 'the thing.' I said that if you'd done 'the thing' to her, she would have mentioned it right away because it's so amazing. And the fact that she hadn't mentioned it, meant you hadn't done it and that meant she wasn't that important to you."

"Lisbon, you're brilliant." She blows her nose and gives me the hairy eyeball. "You are, my dear. You've wielded the power of disinformation." She smiles weakly. "Disinformation?" I squeeze her hand. "Spreading intentionally false information to convince someone of an untruth." "Trust you Jane, to use such an elaborate term for me lying through my teeth," she says.

"Think about it, Lisbon. Lorelei tells Red John about 'the thing' that Patrick does only to Teresa and it upsets him. He wants to know-scratch that-he must know what it is and he wants to do it."

Lisbon shakes her head. "But there is no 'thing,' Jane, I made it up." "Right Lisbon. But Lorelei doesn't know that. She tells Red John about it and he doesn't know that Lorelei doesn't know. Lisbon says, "OK, I get that. Lorelei and Red John both believe my lie. So what does he mean when he talks about the stuff, Jane?"

"Hmm. 'The stuff.'" I stand and put my hands in my pockets and rock on my heels. "Let's think about that. Lorelei tells Red John about 'the thing.' It hurts him; makes him feel like about two cents. Knowing she's going to die anyway, Lorelei escalates. Really wants to skewer him. And she knows just where his weak spot is. She tells him that not only is he such a loser that can't he do 'the thing,' he also doesn't even have 'the stuff' to do it with. She deals him a major narcissistic blow."

Lisbon still looks puzzled. "But why would not having 'the stuff' be particularly painful for Red John?" I tell her, "When Lorelei and I spent our night together, she checked out the labels in my clothes and asked what cologne I wear." Lisbon asks, "What cologne do you wear, Jane?" "Men shouldn't wear cologne, Lisbon, it's declassé. But let's not digress. All that information she gathered was for Red John."

Lisbon says, "So this tells us that Red John is very acquisitive and image conscious. But more importantly, he wants to be like you. Case in point, we know he now uses the soap you use."

"Yes, Lisbon. Lorelei tells him about 'the thing' and then 'the stuff,' and then dies knowing he'll torture himself about the imaginary thing I do and the nonexistent stuff I use to do it with.

"'The thing' is your stroke of genius, Lisbon. 'The stuff' is Lorelei's parting gift." I pull Lisbon up from the sofa and lead her through a brisk fox trot around her office.

"Lorelei's gift? You're not making sense, Jane." I twirl Lisbon around and then dip her. "It'll all become clear to you. Trust me Lisbon, I have a plan."

I hang her bag on her shoulder and usher her out of her office and into the bullpen where the team is at their desks.

"You'd better let me in on this plan, Jane, or so help me." I grab my jacket from my couch. "The plan can't work without you, Lisbon." She nods in satisfaction. "Step one of the plan is...you and I have to have sex."

Cho says, "He's right, Boss."


	12. Chapter 12

TERESA, in Jane's car

Jane herds me out of the CBI babbling about his plan. Part one being, he and I have sex. How romantic, I get to be part of one of his machinations to catch Red John.

He propels me through the parking lot with the palm of his hand on my lower back. He says, "This is a breakthrough, Lisbon. You've cracked the Red John case wide open." The man has finally lost it. Patrick Jane, who I've loved forever but who's never so much as pecked me on the cheek is dragging me off like a caveman? And don't I get a vote? "Uh...Jane," I say.

He stuffs me into the passenger seat of his insane car and tears off down the highway. "We'll go to your place, Lisbon." I demur, "This is totally inappropriate, Jane." To which he replies, "Inappropriate? I think your bed is perfect for this. You look like an italian linen kind of girl, am I right?" Son of a bitch, he knows everything. He continues, "And being Teresa Lisbon, you not only iron your sheets, you spray them with lemon verbena water."

"Before I forget," he says, "have any tea? 'Cause if not, I can stop at the market."

I try to get a word in. "Jane, there is no way-." "And don't worry LIsbon, I have my go-bag with me so we can both leave from your house tomorrow," he assures me. I'm blushing now. He has a lot of nerve.

He makes a terrifying U-turn. "As I think about it, we should stop and get take-out for after. There's a place somewhere around here that makes a great chicken potpie. And it's next to the wine store. A simple Brouilly would work nicely, don't you think?"

I always knew he was a cold bastard but this is unbelievable.

"Jane! Stop!" He looks puzzled. "Like, pull over?" "Pulling over is good," I say. He drives the Citroen onto the grassy shoulder. Then he folds his hands in his lap and gives me his full attention.

"Jane, until you take me through your thinking, we are not moving another inch. And let me begin by saying, there is no possible plan that would require a Senior Special Agent to engage in an intimate relationship with her consultant.

"Lisbon, you have to trust-" "Explain yourself, Jane, or you're off the unit," I hiss.

"You know what, Teresa," he says, unbuckling his seatbelt, "give it a rest."

He gets out of the car and stalks away along the grass. I sit there a minute with my mouth open. I get out of the car and follow him. I want him but not if it's meaningless. Not if I he's doing it because it somehow works in his grand plan. Not without a word or a thought for me.

Just as I catch up to him, he turns and squares off at me. "You know he's coming for you Saturday, don't you?"

Oh god, in that moment, I know he's right. Jane sees it dawn on me. "There's only one woman in the world who's experienced 'the thing,' Lisbon. And he wants lessons from that woman."

I'm horrified. I brought this on myself. Made myself a target for Red John.

Jane goes on. "He's going to show up at your apartment at around 8pm on Saturday. You have to be prepared, Lisbon." "I'll have my gun and I'll have the team," I say. Jane rolls his eyes. "Can't count on any of that. He's too smart. He could figure out a way to neutralize the team and get to you. And I'm sure he'd make me watch."

"Who knows, he could kidnap us both, strip us naked and make us mate as an educational experience for himself."

Whoa. Jane has some strange stuff going on in his head. I have never been so disgusted yet so titillated by any one sentence.

I say, "So, what you're saying is, your plan is we have to be comfortable with each other...sexually so if Red John comes for us, we'll have our wits about us and won't be distracted by the fact that we're seeing each other naked for the first time?" Jane nods.

"And if you and I have sex now I'll be better able to stall for time by telling Red John in detail about your lovemaking abilities because I'll have firsthand knowledge of those abilities?" Jane nods again. "Sort of like Scheherazade. I'll spin my tales of your sexual prowess while we wait for Swat?" Jane nods again.

"What a total crock of shit," I say.

His face drops. He looks at his shoes. I go on. "I get that Red John is coming for me and that he'll expect me to instruct him on the ins and outs of some fictional sex act. And that this could be the time that we can catch him. What I don't get is why you and I have to have sex. Can you enlighten me, Jane?"

When he looks up at me, his eyes are stormy and beautiful. "I'm sorry, Teresa."

I ask him, "Is this the kind of sorry that I'm free to apply to whatever's making me feel the worst?" He looks very sad and serious. "I'm sorry I slept with Lorelei."

I'm stunned. His affair with Lorelei is the thing he's done that hurts the most but why talk about it now?

He continues, "I'd like to be able to say I did it to make my breakdown seem more real to Red John. Or that I identified Lorelei as Red John's girl and knew that I had to play along. But the reality is, I was desperate, out-of-control and profoundly lonely. I'd become the piece of crap I was pretending to be. Like my father always said, 'that's what makes the trick work.'" Jane smiles bitterly.

He continues. "I'm sorry that I did that to myself and to the memory of my family." But I mainly want to apologize to you. Because if I lost myself, it should have been with you. And I'll regret forever that it wasn't."

He bends down a little and looks in my eyes. "This is it, Teresa. We either get him or he gets us. Either way, I'd like for you to be mine and me to be yours." He puts his hands in his pockets and rocks on his heels.

Reader, I fucked him.


	13. Chapter 13

TERESA, late night/early morning at her home

I am speaking to you tonight from a queen-size bed high atop the bedroom loft of a modest condo in Sacramento, California. I am your host, Teresa Lisbon. And my guest tonight is Patrick Jane.

Patrick will not be saying much as he is currently conked out naked and skiwampus on my bed - the result of our prolonged and passionate encounter. But I am happy to fill you in on the day's top story.

I have him. He is mine. And I'm not giving him back.

The Brouilly is going down easy and I've eaten both of the individual potpies. If I wasn't afraid of waking Patrick, I would parade up and down the stairs showgirl-style singing selections from Broadway musicals.

On the way over here in the Citroen, he stopped being secretive and controlling and was, for the first time, forthright and yielding. And now I know. Patrick Jane loves me. Is in love with me. Will love me forever.

Here is my faith-based assessment of my current situation: Somebody up there likes me.

How in the world did I, Teresa Lisbon, nice-looking among cops, come to fix the attention of Patrick Jane, nice-looking among movie stars and Michelangelo sculptures?

I lie here gazing not only at the standard parts one might praise on a man (which, by the way, are kick ass), but also at those areas off the beaten track. The backs of his knees. The nape of his neck. His ears. I could eat him up. And may well do so for dessert.

Four hours ago, we entered my apartment. I kicked the door closed behind us and dragged him up to my bedroom loft. By the time I'd opened three of his vest buttons, he had me completely disrobed. Completely. Whoosh. Like my pants were folded and my earrings were lying in the little dish next to the bed.

I recommend that every woman spend time naked in the arms of a beautiful man in a three piece suit. Nineteenth century porn, it was. Just kissing him and having his body pressed against mine sent me crashing over the edge. I cried out his name. I wasn't too surprised. I'd already had ten years of foreplay. Of course, the son of a bitch grinned like the Cheshire Cat.

Then I stripped him, kissing every square inch as I revealed it. He's usually so covered up that his nakedness seemed that much more naked.

His skin, his teeth, his hair, his eyes. Patrick Jane makes you realize the rest of us are made with industrial-grade materials.

The moment I had him naked, I wanted him inside me. That first time, I must confess that I couldn't concentrate at all on my own body. I didn't lose myself. I didn't want to. All I wanted was to watch him come apart in my arms. Not the calculating or adept mentalist, just hard and sweet and urgent and at the end, out of control. I think he was a bit sheepish at how he hadn't been able to hold back. That's what I was going for. The smartest one in the room lost his mind in my bed. And after that, I let him demonstrate his many fine skills and attributes.

Just as he wanted, I am his and he is mine. How did I actually get the love of my life?

You're wondering how many times did I...? Dunno. Unlike Lorelei, I didn't have my abacus with me.


	14. Chapter 14

PATRICK, on the way to Lisbon's place Friday after work.

I didn't know I could be happy again.

After Monday night, Lisbon and I have spent the last four days fighting and having sex. We schedule all arguments during work hours and pencil in sex for anytime after or before work. So we're pretty jammed.

The arguments are about Red John. How to prepare for his Saturday night visit to Lisbon.

Teresa insists that I let her and the team take him down. She's worked out a plan. Van Pelt and Rigsby will be downstairs. Cho will be up in the closet in the bedroom loft. Teresa will be on the bed armed to the teeth. I will be outside in an SUV.

That's what the arguments are about. Much as she begs me to stay away, I have to...I must be there.

I will not allow this to be taken away from me. From us.

It's strange but I'm thinking more about protecting Teresa than I am about getting my revenge. Mind you, I'd still like to boil him in oil but not until I'd made sure Teresa was protected from any spatters that deep-frying the bastard might generate.

But we can continue the debate tomorrow. I'm sure I can convince her that having me there will be better than trying to keep me away.

I pull up into a space outside her place. Her car is already there. I pop my trunk and pull out sushi and champagne and cupcakes and a boutique shopping bag.

It turns out that Teresa Lisbon, the pocket rocket, the poster child for the NRA, wears the most exquisite, most complicated lingerie I've ever seen. And not just for special occasions. All different kinds of bustiers and corselets and balconnettes and tap pants and thongs and garter belts with stockings with seams have lurked under her sensible pants and blazers and sleep jerseys all these years. Who knew?

The first night when I undressed her, it took me a full five seconds more than my usual to undo all the hooks and clasps and buttons. A challenge to my carny skills. And unbearably sexy. I really couldn't control myself.

In hopes that she will keep me challenged, the boutique bag I'm bearing contains a bunch of brainbuster lingerie in colors I like for her. Lilac silk with black lace. White cotton with undyed cotton trim. Navy silk with pink ribbon trim. Black satin with grosgrain trim. Nude colored fishnet stockings. Black silk stockings with clocks in the heels. And an ice-blue silk teddie with a pearl button crotch.

So in the future, when I say I'm spending time puttering around the house. i will be breathing hard opening tiny obstinate buttons and hooks and laces

I unlock the front door. All is quiet but soft lights are on in the loft. I grab two glasses and bring the champagne, sushi and the boutique bag up the stairs. The cupcakes can stay in the kitchen for now.

From the stairs, I glimpse Teresa's glowing white body clad in a black silk balconnette bra with violet velvet straps plus a matching garter belt and bikini pants. I move up the stairs slowly, quietly and so happily. When I reach the top she turns to me. She's terrified.


	15. Chapter 15

TERESA in her bedroom

For the past hour, Red John has been sitting on the edge of my bed. At the moment, he's studying my toenails. "Good color. That red is so dark, it's almost black," he says. "Vamp by Chanel," I tell him. "I'll have to remember that," he says.

He broke pattern. He showed up Friday instead of Saturday. On Saturday, the team and I would have been here loaded and ready for action. Instead it's just me in a bra and garter belt ready for sex.

He was hiding under the bed. The bed. That's so old, it's new. None of my cop instincts were triggered. I didn't notice a thing. I got home, showered, and slipped into something less comfortable which I was sure Jane would peel off me very soon. The moment I flopped onto the duvet, Red John slid out from under the bed skirt and tied me up. I used all my fighting skills to get away but he subdued me without breaking a sweat and without hurting me at all. I watched as he went through the place finding all my hidden weapons. He put my cell phone in his pocket.

He walked back to the bed. I was shaking; waiting for the first cut. Instead, he took a seat and has been chatting me up ever since.

"Where'd you grow up, Teresa?" he asks. "Chicago," I answer. "Oh great town. Great restaurant town and I love the architecture." I nod. "You go to school back there?" he asks. "University of Chicago," I tell him. "Good school," he says. "What was your major?" "Sociology," I say. "You?" He chuckles. "Let's say I created my own field of independent study."

I try to appear calm. I'm not going to give him the satisfaction of showing fear. Is he going to ask me about "the thing" and "the stuff?" Is he going to make me do "the thing" with him? Why did I open my big mouth to Lorelei? I feel panicky like Prissy in "Gone With the Wind." "I don't know nothin' bout birthin' no babies."

"Seen that new Bulgarian film, Teresa?" He says this as he affixes an enchanting corsage to my wrist. "I've been too busy working on the Corsage Killer case," I answer. That seems to crack him up.

I realize that the conversation we're having is a first date conversation. This is probably how he started off the evening with those nine women he killed. Being a good listener with a good sense of humor.

This is surreal. Red Fucking John is here. He is soft spoken and polite and has done nothing untoward except break into my house and bind my wrists and ankles to the four corners of the bed.

Assuming he's half-way decent-looking without the hood and mask, I can understand how he got all those women to go out with him and even how he got lucky on all those the first dates.

"I like your lingerie, Teresa," he remarks. "Andres Sarda?" Wow, he guessed the brand of underwear I'm wearing. "Yes," I say. "Good eye." He nods in satisfaction. "Thanks, I used to buy lingerie for Lorelei. Sarda, Eres, Agent Provocateur, Maison Close, Carine Gilson, Jean Yu." His voice is a little shaky. He misses her. I can tell. He sighs heavily.

From under the bed, he pulls out a large black leather backpack from which he removes a burgundy colored felt pouch. Here come the knives. I brace myself.

He unzips the pouch to reveal some Baccarat champagne flutes. I exhale. Then he produces a bottle of Dom Perignon. He wipes the glasses with a soft cloth. They're beautiful. Almost medieval in their heft and boldness. "The Massena pattern is my favorite," he says.

He arranges the bottle and glasses carefully on my nightstand. When I see there are three glasses, I understand why he hasn't yet chopped me into tartare. He's waiting for Patrick.

Please, let this be the night Patrick flakes on me and mopes in his attic. Let him lose track of time in a high stakes poker game. Let him pursue a new angle on the case we're investigating and get himself tossed in the slammer.

Red John's got me. Don't let him get Patrick.

Suddenly, Red John pulls a knife from his sleeve and holds it to my throat. He holds his other finger to my lips. I freeze. I hear nothing. Then, my heart sinks, there's a slight sound from the kitchen. Shortly, a riot of blond curls appears as it ascends the stairs to the open loft space.

Then I see Patrick see me.

For a millisecond, there's horror and fear in his blue-green eyes. It's instantly replaced by amusement. His lips curve into a smirk. He bops into the room with a swagger that's insufferable even to me. Oh god, Jane. What are you doing?

"Hello, Patrick," Red John says caressing my pinky toe. "Teresa and I have been getting to know each other."

Patrick bounces over and kisses me on the cheek then strolls over to the nightstand and scopes out the bottle of Dom Perignon. He glances at Red John and rolls his eyes. "What are you, a hip hop star? A drug lord? A junior stock broker, maybe?" Snarky like only Jane can be.

Red John stands. "What's that supposed to mean?" Patrick sticks his hands in his pockets and rocks back and forth on his heels. "I mean, if you're gonna bring champagne to a woman's house, isn't Dom Perignon, at this point, sort of a cliché? The jejune choice?" "Jejune?" Red John sputters. Patrick gives Red John an impatient look. "Yes. Kind of obvious. Immature. More about going for the showy brand because it's showy."

Patrick sets down the bottle of champagne he's brought next to Red John's Dom Perignon. Red John picks it up. "Billecart Salmon? Never heard of it." Patrick snorts, "'Course, you haven't."

Red John whips out a taser. "You can be a real jackass, you know?"


	16. Chapter 16

TERESA, later that night in her bedroom

I am screaming.

Red John has Patrick chained to the loft railing. Sometimes inflicting shallow cuts with his knife; sometimes kicking him. Patrick's bleeding from a cut on his shoulder where the curved knife sliced through his shirt. Through all this, he keeps mocking Red John. He won't shut up. So far he's made fun of his pants, his watch, and his voice.

"Stop it, Jane! Please, he'll kill you!" Patrick grins crazily at me, "Teresa. I'm going to save you. Just trust me." He glances at Red John's feet, "Cowboy boots? Really?" Red John kicks him in the ribs. He passes out.

Red John chuckles and sits down at my side. "Please don't hurt him," I beg. "I'll do anything you want." He pats my arm. "Don't worry, you'll have your chance to do exactly that." I look over at Patrick and am relieved to see he's breathing. Now Red John is focusing on me instead. Maybe I can just keep him calm; get him back into his first date mode.

Red John reaches into the shopping bag that Patrick brought and goes through its contents. He holds up a lilac silk bra and panty set. "You like this?" he asks, his face doubtful. I nod. He holds it next to my skin. "I suppose the color is good with your complexion." He pulls out a white cotton bra and panties. His lip curls. "Cotton, feh. Looks good new. Gonna be dingy in a few washings." He tosses them on the floor.

Am I going to die as the result of some effete pissing contest?

An hour ago, after Red John tased Patrick because he made fun of Red John's choice of champagne, Dom Perignon, he accepted Patrick's challenge to open both bottles and have us participate in a blind taste test. When all three of us chose the Billecart Salmon (I've never heard of it either), Red John was not a happy camper. If it could be said that one could get off on the wrong foot with him, that was the moment it happened.

Back to Red John perusing the lingerie Patrick brought me. He holds up an ice blue teddy. "And the teddy with the pearl button crotch, Teresa? Well-intentioned, I suppose, but honestly, won't some of your pubes wind up poking through the buttonholes?" He has a point but I feel like agreeing with him would be a betrayal of Patrick.

Last in the bag is a navy blue thong with pink ribbon trim. He looks at the price and crows. "Fifty-five dollars? Pff. I once bought Lorelei a three-hundred dollar thong." Patrick opens his eyes and then his mouth. "And you're bragging about that? Sorry, buddy, if it wasn't carved out of the Hope Diamond, you got rooked." Jane just has to keep poking the big wigs.

Red John pulls out his curved knife and holds it to my throat. He roars, "Just keep running your mouth, Patrick. What could possibly go wrong?"

He turns his attention back to me. He trails the knife along my jaw. "Now, Teresa, since your boyfriend is now conscious enough to watch, why don't you teach me 'the thing?'"

"I...I…," I sputter. What the fuck? I really don't know what to say. I look over at Patrick for guidance. Patrick's eyes flicker to the bathroom door. Red John looks from me to Patrick. He stands and faces the bathroom. Then he grins, and does an about face. He walks deliberately step by step toward the closet on the opposite side of the bedroom all the while looking at Patrick. The closer Red John gets to the closet, the more Patrick's eyes flicker to the bathroom.

Triumphant, Red John puts his hand on the doorknob to the closet. "You see, Patrick, you're not the only one who reads human behavior. I can tell that the closer I get to the place you're hiding something, the more desperately you try to lure me in the opposite direction.

Patrick's body sags. All is lost. He's lost hope. And I am crushed; bereft. I start to cry. I wish I could hold him just once more in my arms and give him some comfort. My poor beautiful languid tiger cub who's suffered so valiantly.

Red John opens the closet. He searches through my clothes rack then pushes the clothes aside and discovers the shelf hidden in the back.

"Voila, 'the stuff,'" he announces. He holds high above his head a pink vinyl Hello Kitty suitcase.


	17. Chapter 17

TERESA in her bedroom a few minutes later.

Where did this Hello Kitty suitcase come from? I remember. One of my nieces left it. It contains sticky Barbies without heads.

Why was Patrick so determined to get Red John to look in the bathroom? Was he thinking he could slip out of his chains and lock Red John in there? Or was he doing his Jane trick, looking at the bathroom because he wanted Red John to look in the closet?

But why the closet? Red John's going to find nothing but dolls and my clothes.

Then he'll torture me and/or Patrick to tell him where "the stuff" is until it dawns on him that it's all a hoax. No "thing," no "stuff." No exotic sex act for him to master.

I've never seen Patrick so utterly desolate. He has no plan and neither do I. All we can do is be brave for each other.

Red John shakes the suitcase. He tries to open the latch. It's locked. He searches the inside of his robe. It must have pockets inside. He's looking for a lock pick.

Coming up empty, he walks over to where Patrick is chained to the railing and goes through his pockets. Vest. Inner vest. Jacket breast. Ticket pocket. Outer flaps. Inner breast. Front side pants.

Patrick comes back to life. "Whoa, whoa, watch it, Mr. Happy Hands." Dammit Jane. You bounce from the depths of despair to calling Red John's sexual orientation into question. What are you thinking?

Red John coolly replies. "Please, Mr. Jane, aside from where I place my knife during your inevitable death, I have no interest in your body."

"That's not what she said." Patrick replies with a smirk.

He continues. "Poor Lorelei had many questions about my body and how I use it. I have to believe that information was for you." Red John yanks his hands off Patrick like he's a hot stove.

Patrick chuckles. "I carry a lock pick in my rear pants pocket. Go ahead, feel around back there. You know you want to."

Red John snarls. His curved blade flashes high in his hand. I gasp. In lightning slashes, he cuts Patrick's clothes to ribbons. Jacket, vest, shirt and pants fall away in a flurry of Prince of Wales check and Egyptian cotton. When the fabric settles, he's stripped down to his boxers.

He is battered and bruised and bleeding a little but he still manages to look like a Calvin Klein ad. Will I ever hold him again?

Red John tugs the section of pants that contains the back pocket out from under Patrick. He locates the lock pick.

Patrick says, "Oh look, the piece of cloth you're holding has the label of my suit sewn onto it." Red John seems like he's struggling with his own curiosity. Then he reads the label aloud "Seize sur Vingt, New York...not Paul Smith?" Patrick smirks, "Oh dear, did you run out and buy a wardrobe of Paul Smith suits after Lorelei told you about them? Yeah...I'm not wearing that brand anymore. The quality took a nosedive." Red John clenches his fists.

"Jane, stop wising off," I beg. I wish I could break the ties that bind my wrists and ankles to the bed so I could punch Jane in the nose.

Surprise. Patrick chatters on. "But on a positive note, for a poseur, your French pronunciation is surprisingly good." Red John mutters, "Fucking asshole."

He stuffs the label in his pocket. Patrick adds, "By the way, you owe me three-thousand bucks."

Red John looks over at me on the bed and we exchange "holy shit" takes at the price of his suit. No wonder Jane looks so elegant. I lie here thinking, when the hell did that bastard sneak off to go shopping in New York?

Red John opens the suitcase. My jaw drops. It's not jammed with Barbies. It's fitted with black leather cases of all sizes. The cases have heavy clasps and spikes all over them. Very S&M. I'm confused. Does this mean "the stuff" really exists? Has Patrick filled the suitcase with creepy carny sex toys that will reveal a dark and perverse side of him that will nauseate me? Gee, I hope not.

Patrick squeezes his eyes shut and bangs his head against the loft railing. "OK, Red John, you got me. I never thought you'd have the brains to find it."

Red John walks over to Patrick and pulls his hair back exposing his beautiful throat. The curved knife is poised. Red John growls. "Didn't think I'd have the brains to find it, huh? You want to reconsider saying that?" Patrick replies, "If you hurt me, you'll have a hell of a hard time getting Teresa in the mood for 'the thing.' And if you harm a hair on her head, I will die before I tell you how to use 'the stuff.'"

Red John chuckles, "Patrick, this is not a negotiation. I'm the one with the knife here. All I'm willing to offer as a gentleman is this. If you teach me about 'the stuff' and 'the thing' and I enjoy myself, I'll consider letting Teresa live. And if you're very well-behaved, I won't kill you in front of her. So it's up to you."

"Fair enough," Patrick says. "So let's get 'the stuff' set up for 'the thing,' shall we?"

Fuck a duck. What's he doing? Am I in on this merely as Red John's sex toy? Is Patrick calmly outlining creative ways Red John can boink me?

Patrick begins. "First, open that small case." Red John opens it. He pulls out a pair of blue and green low cut athletic socks. Patrick says, "Put them on Teresa's feet." Red John does so. "Open the other small case." Inside are a dozen or so large tablets in an antique vial. "Give Teresa two with water." Red John gets a cup of water from the bathroom. He pops the tablets in my mouth and gives me a sip of water. They taste a lot like Pepto Bismol.

Patrick says to Red John, "Things will move swiftly from this point on. So stay on your toes. Because she's so petite, she'll become very turned on very soon." Son of a bitch, Jane. I'm in terror. I'm certainly not turned on. Patrick continues, "Very, very turned on, indeed." I catch his eye. Is he goofing on me? This is a real drug…isn't it? I don't feel anything yet. I have to trust Patrick. I start panting.

He says, "The drug is flowing into her system more rapidly than usual. Must be her increased heart rate because of your presence."

Jane gestures impatiently at Red John. "Don't dawdle, man. To hell with your middle class modesty. Take off your clothes." Red John is transfixed by how I'm wriggling around, licking my lips and clutching the sheets. He doffs his robe, his pants, and his underpants.

He stands there in nothing but shoes, socks, his hood and his hideous mask. Not a good look. Red John's body is OK. But standing naked next to Patrick Jane naked is a blow to any man's ego. I can tell Red John is aware of his short comings.

He removes his hood. My jaw drops. Red John has a head full of shining blond curls. So surprised am I by his crowning glory that I forget to gyrate for a moment. Patrick grins in giddy delight. "Look Teresa. The collar doesn't match the cuffs."

Patrick barks commands. "Open the large case and make it snappy." Red John opens it. It contains a pair of oven mitts. "Those go on Teresa's hands. Good. Move to the next case. Take out the post-it notes and place six of them above her head on the pillow. Position the Sharpie on the night table. You're going to have to do some quick computations in the middle of this." Red John puts everything in place.

"Open the next case, put the eyelash curler on the left side of the bed. The colander goes on the right side."

Patrick looks over to the bed. "Let's see how Lisbon's doing. She should be close."

There I am in socks and oven mitts laid out on a bed festooned with post-it notes, an eyelash curler and a colander. I crank up my turned on-act. I'm breathing hard, rolling my eyes around and moaning like crazy. I have Red John's full attention. I lay it on even thicker. I stick my tongue out and attempt to lick my own tit.

Patrick says, "OK, Red John. At this point in the festivities, you'll need to have an erection." Red John says, "This is an erection." Patrick says, "Oh, my condolences, then."

Red John casts about for something to fling at Patrick and chucks the Hello Kitty suitcase at his head. Jane ducks. Something in the suitcase rattles when it hits the ground.

"What was that?" Red John asks. Patrick looks nervous and says, "I didn't hear anything. Did you hear anything, Teresa?" I shake my head. Patrick continues, "Red John, this is no time to dick around, I think she's pretty much ready for you."

It's obvious Patrick doesn't want Red John to look at the Hello Kitty suitcase again. I writhe wildly, buck my hips in the air and make sucking motions with my mouth. Despite my attempt to distract him, Red John turns to look at the suitcase.

He opens it. Nothing there. He shakes it. Something pretty heavy is sliding around inside. Red John picks up his curved knife and slashes open the lining. Another black leather case is hidden there.

Red John opens the case. Inside is a sleek black crystal bottle with a spray top. It's heavy and elegant. Red John examines the bottle. No label. He leaps on Patrick and slaps him. Patrick cries out.

Red John's in a rage. He asks me, "Teresa, what does Patrick say about men's cologne?" I look at Jane who's leaning against the railing, eyes barely open. He nods almost imperceptibly. I tell Red John, "Patrick says cologne for men is declassé." Red John holds his knife near Patrick's chest. "And you know what Lorelei said? That Patrick said cologne for men is declassé."

"And yet here in my hand is proof that the great Patrick Jane not only wears cologne but that he keeps the fact that he does so from his friends and even his lover."

Red John grabs Patrick's hair. Slowly, he makes a long shallow cut from throat to navel. It's not deep. It hardly bleeds. It doesn't matter. Patrick's screaming. I'm screaming, "Stop, you're killing him," I cry.

Red John moves close to Jane's face. "You deserve to die, Patrick. For what you've done to me. You shitcanned the brand of suits you pretty much forced me to buy. You fooled me into dumping out a four-hundred dollar bottle of Gucci for Men that was still three-quarters full because you said cologne was déclassé. You made me wash with that damned Acacia soap which is hell on my dry skin. You messed with my girlfriend's head so I had to kill her. Now, you withhold this cologne which is obviously an important part of 'the stuff' because you just can't stand for me to be as good as you are at 'the thing.'"

Patrick whimpers. "The cologne. You don't want to use it. I promise you won't like it."

"From now on, I decide what I like, Mr. Jane."

He picks up the bottle and heads toward the bed. "Get ready, Teresa. Time to do 'the thing.'"

M

M

PATRICK, in the bedroom, a minute later.

You know what's better than seeing the monster who killed your family inhale sulphuric acid? Seeing him spray it on his dick.

Everywhere the acid touched, Red John is hideously burned. Ditto for his throat and lungs and nasal passages and tongue, I imagine. And that's just the external burn. There's also an internal burn deep within the tissue that he'll feel very shortly.

I watch as he staggers around the loft. Like Todd Johnson. Only without the fire. He can't see all that well since his mask has melded with his face. So his attempts to get to the water faucet have failed.

I half expect Lisbon, in her role as an officer of the law, to call out directions and guide him to the bathroom.

She doesn't.

My oven mitt-wearing peach proves once again what a peerless woman she is.

Something exciting's going on. He's trying to peel off his mask and his face appears to be coming with it. He's shrieking. He's lurching. He's stumbling

He's falling backwards over the loft railing.

THUD.

I look down at him lying on his back. Fifteen feet. He won't necessarily die from the fall though he may want to. His penis seems to be dissolving.

I pull myself up to stand. My blood drips down on him.

I can see that he can see me.

I take a deep breath.

"Cologne for men is déclassé."

"Did you hear me?" Red John flutters his eyes. He hears.

I say what I've wanted to say for so many years.

"This is justice for Angela Jane and for Charlotte Jane. And for Patrick Jane.

This is also for Sam Bosco and for Lorelei Martins. And for all the other victims." I sway. I don't know how long I can stand. "And…and…I want to give a shout-out to Grace Van Pelt."

I say, "Blink three times if you heard that."

He blinks. One. Two. Three.

I guess that was his version of honor.

His eyes stay open.

Have been for ten minutes. He hasn't moved.

I slide down to the floor, still looking at him through the railings.

I wish I could hold Teresa.

BAM.

Cho kicks the door in.

He glances at Red John. Then at me.

"Hey Jane. Boss around?"


End file.
